


Dandelion Soup

by margosfairyeye (Skittery)



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Crack, Fluff and Crack, M/M, Post episode: s01e02 Four Marks, Pre-Slash, Swooning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-04
Updated: 2020-04-04
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:53:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23484142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skittery/pseuds/margosfairyeye
Summary: fill for the prompt: geralt exposes an ankle and jaskier fucking swoons
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 17
Kudos: 177





	Dandelion Soup

**Author's Note:**

> for the prompt: geralt exposes an ankle and jaskier fucking swoons
> 
> thanks to [zade](https://archiveofourown.org/users/zade) for beta-ing!

“So, this is exciting,” Jaskier says, picking idly at a patch of grass. 

It’s late evening, a few days after the encounter with the devil, and Jaskier is still traveling with Geralt. And they’re camping. Jaskier has never been camping. Or rather, he’s been camping, but it usually involved tents and pillows, and a cook with a wagon full of food. This is  _ camping _ , with thin bedrolls and open air and only the food they’ve managed to carry with them. 

Geralt gives him an annoyed look. He’s actually growing rather fond of Geralt’s annoyed looks. He’s certainly seen enough of them. “You didn’t have to keep following me.”

Jaskier grins. “And I told  _ you _ , it’s not that easy to get rid of me. Plus, you secretly want me to keep following you.”

Geralt doesn’t dignify that with a response other than a low hum. Jaskier is going to take that as a yes, personally. 

“Help me pick these, make yourself useful.” Geralt gestures at his handful of small yellow flowers, which are scattered around them in clusters in the glade.

Jaskier is not one for picking flowers. Mostly because he has a strong memory of getting poison oak when he was a child, and also because he’s never really had cause to. He’s always been able to just pop over to a merchant or gardener when he needed a bouquet for any of his wooing needs. He strongly suspects that Geralt’s not just making him a bouquet to show his gratitude for Jaskier being such a good friend and talented bard, although he did entertain that idea for a moment. 

“They aren’t poisonous, are they?” Jaskier asks, frowning when Geralt gives him another of those withering looks. “Well, you  _ are _ wearing gloves and I’m not, so it’s a possibility,” he mutters, but starts pulling half-heartedly at the flowers. He can’t imagine the utility of picking them. “What are we doing this for, anyway? Do you just not like the look of something pretty in your campsite? Or are you trying to distract me from the utter boredom of camping?”

Geralt is very possibly going to kill him with his stare. It’s making Jaskier feel overly warm.

“It’s called foraging,” Geralt says impatiently. “We’re going to eat them.”

“Oh.” Jaskier is not entirely sure he’s that hungry yet. “And here I thought we’d be doing exciting things like hunting for meat, or whatever.”

Geralt turns away from him. “This is easier.”

“Right. Easier.” Jaskier tries to focus on picking flowers, but honestly when he’d approached and then followed the brooding witcher, he’d kind of expected more excitement than this. His songs were seriously going to suffer if he had to write about small flower soup. “It’s just that I thought there would be more adventure, more valiantly slaying of monsters and throngs of ardent admirers, that sort of thing. And less…” he stares at his small handful of flowers and tries to think of a word that won’t sound insulting.

“Reality?” Geralt provides, unhelpfully.

Jaskier shakes his head. “I can’t very well write songs about your daring flower-picking, can I?”

Geralt straightens up and dumps his handful of flowers into something resembling a cook pot that Jaskier hadn’t even noticed hanging from Roach’s packs, and starts to make a fire. “Why not?” he says after a moment, “Everyone loves an idyll.”

Jaskier gapes at him. “Did you just make a joke?” 

He can see Geralt smile softly to himself, apparently under the assumption that Jaskier can’t see it. It makes Jaskier’s head spin a little bit. Jaskier’s own quick familiarity is one thing, but to see Geralt finally getting even a little bit comfortable with him—even if it’s a joke at his expense—well, that was a completely different thing. Jaskier talked a big game, but it was only to cover up how sheltered and deprived of real companionship he’d been before he left home. 

Jaskier settles back and watches Geralt make a fire and start tossing things into the pot. It smells remarkably good despite lacking anything Jaskier would actually consider food. Jaskier knows he was lying a bit, when he said there was nothing here to use as lyrical inspiration—there’s the stark color of Geralt’s hair against his skin, his black clothes; there’s the way his eyes seem to constantly change, adapting to the setting sun around them, the way it feels when they stray to look at Jaskier; there’s the way he smiles like he’s sure no one can see, just a slight quirk of lips; there’s the way his hands work skillfully at everything they try, be it fighting or cooking or picking flowers. Jaskier suspects he’s bitten off far more than he can chew with this entire endeavor, but gods if he isn’t on the edge of his seat. 

The soup is legitimately not bad, although Geralt seems like he’s not sure if he wants to be glad or irritated by Jaskier’s opinion. They eat slowly, in relative quiet, with nothing around to inspire even polite conversation or interrupt the meal. It’s…different. 

Afterwards, Geralt sighs and sits on his bedroll, which is just close enough to Jaskier’s that it makes his pulse quicken. Geralt pulls at his boots, groaning slightly as he tugs at the left one. 

“Need a hand?” Jaskier asks, eager to offer and then immediately overcome by regret when Geralt carefully replies, “fine.”

Geralt motions for him to pull and Jaskier grabs hold of the boot and pulls. Geralt groans more fully as the boot comes free, and Jaskier can see a blood stain on his sock—which is slightly concerning. Jaskier isn’t scared of blood or anything, but he also holds no illusions that he will be any help with medical concerns. It’s not normal to air that sort of thing in company, and Jaskier wonders how difficult it would be to find a legitimate healer anywhere close to this part of the forest. 

“Are you hurt?” 

Geralt shrugs. “Not badly. But I want to clean it.” Geralt pulls off the sock gingerly. 

Jaskier feels uncommonly sweaty and light-headed. He can’t believe that Geralt got  _ hurt _ and didn’t say anything about it. Well, actually, he can absolutely believe that, but it still makes him indignant. 

He watches Geralt pull the sock off, which means he’s watching from a very close distance when the motion of pulling off the sock causes Geralt’s pants to push up towards his knee, exposing a significant amount of skin around his ankle. 

Jaskier makes a noise between a sigh and a moan. It’s  _ so much skin _ . He’s barely ever seen so much exposed, and it makes his mind conjure thoughts that are somewhere between reverent and filthy. He’s so close, and he wants to touch it, to press his hands against the bare skin of Geralt’s ankle, the forbidden fruit. It’s  _ overwhelming _ .

“Jaskier? Are you all right?” Geralt’s voice comes to him as though through water. 

Jaskier tries to reply, but to his utter dismay he can’t find the words. He feels so warm, like he’s suddenly come down with a fever, and the sensation spreads across his body, settling in his cheeks and his chest and his palms and his groin. He can hardly breathe, his breaths coming quick and shallow. Gods, this is what his parents had warned him about. Jaskier has a moment of realizing that his vision is going fuzzy before he faints. 

Jaskier comes to with Geralt’s face peering down at him. 

“Jaskier?” he asks as Jaskier blinks. For a moment, Jaskier thinks that Geralt is really worried, but then he realizes that the odd tone to his voice isn’t worry, but held back laughter. “Are you all right?”

Jaskier nods shakily and tries to sit up. Geralt puts a hand on his forearm to help, which Jaskier does appreciate even if it threatens to send him into another fainting spell. Being out here with Geralt really is  _ a lot  _ different than being at court. 

Jaskier catches sight of Geralt’s ankle, still racily exposed. He groans. “Geralt, for fuck’s sake can you make yourself decent? This isn’t a brothel!”

Geralt’s laugh is full-voiced this time. “You,” he says with amusement, “have clearly never been to a brothel before, have you?”

Jaskier frowns. “Well, no. But I know what they’re like!”

Geralt grins. “Someday I’ll take you to one, but don’t worry, I’ll be there to catch you when you faint.”

Jaskier gapes, uncertain how to interpret that, or what it would mean to go  _ with Geralt _ to a brothel and keep him close enough to be within catching range. He’s not certain he wouldn’t like to do that. “I think I’d like that,” he says agreeably. 

Geralt laughs again. He helps Jaskier over to his bedroll and they both settle in. It’s less distracting now that the fire is out and Geralt’s ankle is hidden beneath his blanket, but Jaskier still  _ knows _ that it’s there, looking all alluring and pale. Jaskier thinks he might like to see more of it, although he’s a little unclear on the rules for courting witchers. He’ll have to devote some time to finding that out. 

_ “ _ Maybe camping isn’t so bad after all,” Jaskier says sleepily. “Just a different kind of exciting.”

He can hear Geralt’s quiet laugh even though he can tell Geralt is trying to choke it down. “If you write a song about my ankle, you’ll have to find yourself another travel companion.”

Jaskier yawns. “Don’t worry, your virtue is safe with me.”

He doesn’t understand why Geralt keeps laughing, but he likes the sound, and goes to sleep feeling like this might all work out well in the end, after all. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> It turns out I really enjoy writing crack but also look me in the eyes and tell me this could not have actually happened at this point in canon. 
> 
> I'm on [tumblr](https://margosfairyeye.tumblr.com), please leave me prompts if you want to!


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